I listen to all the local discussions and dissections with an expression of No? How awful plastered to my face, when inside, my stomach is knotted in panic and my mind is full of remorse and fearful regret.

Dreadful. Apparently he was alone. Wasn’t noticed for days because of bad weather. A tragic accident. Cowardly attack on a lone fisherman.

Stuart doesn’t seem as upset or shocked as everyone else is.

This seems harsh, despite him telling me that he didn’t like Greg.

I keep repeating the words it was an accident over and over until I believe them myself.

Which it was, really, on my part. I wish I’d never gone to make him see sense. I wish I’d spoken up at the time.

It’s amazing how many noises can sound like police sirens if you have a guilty conscience. Images of being cuffed, being guided into the back seat by a police officer, won’t leave me alone. I wouldn’t be tough like the characters I see in soaps, defiantly saying, “No comment.” I’d crack within the first five minutes and confess, probably even to crimes I didn’t commit.

Every day I have a better understanding of Nina and how she must’ve felt. Strange, really, that I know her better after her death than when she was here. If she could be involved in murder, so it seems can I. The metamorphosis is complete.

I donate the money Nina collected in Charlie’s memory to the charity of her choice. I tick it off my mental list of good things I must do to make amends, however small.

Nothing helps take my mind off things for long. I go for endless walks in the forest with Jack and force myself to walk along the river, but never as far as the exact spot of Greg’s death. Guilt gnaws. Fear grows. My mind tosses around endless scenarios. I thank God for the heavy rains that followed; it must have helped destroy some evidence. I force myself to think of every worst possible outcome so that I can mentally prepare.

I recall reading that it’s not just what you leave at a crime scene, it’s also what you can take away: mud, plants and seeds. The list could be endless. I throw away the gloves and hat I wore on the morning of on bin collection day, then wait and watch as our garbage is crushed in the truck. The backpack I used on that fateful day I wash many times and I use it regularly on outings with the kids so it’s filled with all kinds of crap.

When I’m not tending to Jack or Goldie or the children, I finish Nina’s memory album with increased urgency. I have the photo evidence of Nina, Camilla and Charlie, hidden in plain sight, yet buried within the Ibizan pictures. It’s a part of Nina’s history—our history. It felt disingenuous to leave Charlie out, somehow, thinking about it. You’d have to know the story to realize that it’s incriminating.